


Plucked (unseen) Strings

by mia6363



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Eldritch, Fate & Destiny, Graphic Description, Horror Elements, Lovecraftian, Lovecraftian Monster(s), M/M, Magic, Soulmates, cosmic horror, eldritch horror, nebulous soulmates, the first few tags aren't reflective of the tropes you know and love, this isn't your mom's magic kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23626579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: Stiles arrived at The Pit Stop the way most people did: Shit out of luck, drunk, with a pounding in his head that promised an agonizing hangover.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 52
Kudos: 289
Collections: Secret Steter BFFs





	Plucked (unseen) Strings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HakeberHooligan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HakeberHooligan/gifts).



Stiles arrived at The Pit Stop the way most people did: Shit out of luck, drunk, with a pounding in his head that promised an agonizing hangover. 

Reality came to Stiles in bits and pieces. Wood dug into his face, his mouth tasted like old, dirty socks, and he could hear “Take Me Home, Country Roads” warbling from somewhere far away. He opened his eyes and saw condensation dripping down the most alluring tall glass of water Stiles had ever seen. He dragged it toward him, willing his spine to straighten one vertebrae at a time until he hunched over the ice cold glass. 

He sighed after the first swallow. 

“This glass of water definitely fucks.” Someone snorted down the bar. Stiles blinked his eyes into focus. It was a long bar, and he saw that it melted into a full kitchen that hooked around the corner, and disappeared into the back. A large window was there, where Stiles heard and saw bacon sizzling on the stove. His eyes swung by to the giggling bartender. Stiles took a long pull of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What? This tall drink of water would be,” Stiles paused, then snorted, “a tall drink of water that totally fucks.” 

“Sure.” The bartender was a lean, blonde young man. He had a boyish face, a bit of a hunch to his shoulders and an aw-shucks attitude that Stiles hadn’t seen in a long time. “You must have really been feeling like shit. I’ve been checking your pulse and breathing for the past few hours. My boss just wanted to call an ambulance.”

“Fuck that,” Stiles said, slapping his hand down on the wood. “That shit is _expensive.”_

“I know, I know.” The bartender refilled his glass. “Luckily you didn’t throw up or piss yourself, so you’ve been saved a twelve-hundred dollar ride to Portland Memorial.” 

Stiles dragged his hand down his face, glancing around the bar. 

“Shit, I’m in Portland? Oregon or Maine?” 

The bartender laughed, then his smile dropped. 

“Oh shit, you’re really having a bad night.” Stiles gulped down the rest of his water, too drunk to care about being polite. The bartender refilled it the moment the glass hit the table. “You’re in Oregon, dude.” 

Stiles glanced around at the grimey, brick wall, at the stairs that went _up_ in a narrow hallway, and a dented jukebox. He glanced down at himself, at the clothes he last remembered wearing, at dirt under his fingernails, at his red, irritated cuticles. He patted down his shirt and pants, sighing with relief when he found his wallet and keys. He got out his wallet and saw a parking validation stub, and a few gas station receipts. More and more of the past forty-eight hours came back to him and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Give me a shot of whatever bottle you feel like emptying tonight.” 

The bartender whistled, low and mournful. 

“Sorry to break it to you, man, but this isn’t a bar.” 

Stiles reeled back, his eyebrows doing something wild on his face because, _what?_ He rubbed his eyes and realized he didn’t _smell_ alcohol. There were no fancy cocktail glasses, no shakers, and not one bottle opener to be found. He took a deep breath and smelled… coffee. 

“Huh.” He blinked, and sure enough the bartender had an apron on, his sleeves rolled up and his fingernails painted gold. Stiles squinted at a silver name tag with the name _Isaac_ scrawled in messy sharpie. “If this isn’t a bar, then where the fuck am I?” 

Anyone who wound up at The Pit Stop asked that question at some point, so in that regard, Stiles was nothing special. However, not everyone stayed, and from that pool, even fewer became employees. 

In this regard, Stiles was quite unique. 

::::

Unlicensed Magical Practice and Solicitation Auditing was exactly as interesting as it sounded. 

A long hallway that was lined with overstuffed filing cabinets wove through beige hallways. UMPSA offices were all over the country, but the central hub was a dumpy office building in DC. The outside was as unremarkable as the interior. The prestigious title of _Senior Manager_ didn’t bring additional excitement. 

“I’m quitting.” Peter leaned back in his chair, his spine popping in three places as he pushed away from his desk. “I’m done here. This is beneath my qualifications. I’d rather scrape gum off desks then spend one more day in this monotonous nightmare.” 

Kira discreetly closed Peter’s corner office door behind her. 

“You always say that.” 

Kira dropped off that week’s reports on his desk with a practiced motion. Instead of leaving with the usual polite, distant smile, she hovered by his desk, bouncing on the balls of her feet. 

“I mean it this time.” Peter rolled his shoulders. “What’s got you so peppy this morning?” 

Kira nudged a file. 

“I found something interesting.” Kira pulled up one of the dusty chairs, making herself comfortable in a bold move that made Peter straighten, taking the top file. “The Pit Stop. It seems like a standard Portland cafe in terms of weirdness, but a lot of reviews mention anniversaries taking place there because it is where they met their partner. There were some words that stuck out in those reviews that made me take a second look.”

Peter licked his thumb, going through page by page to see that Kira had highlighted passages. 

_“... it felt like magic when I met my wife…”_

_“... our eyes met and I just knew, I felt it…”_

_“... always revisit the place where fate changed…”_

A long dormant hum buzzed in Peter’s veins, rushing in his ears that made his mouth water and the right side of his face ache. Peter pulled up flights, trying not to bounce in his seat. 

“It’s probably nothing,” Peter assured automatically, used to being disappointed in on-site investigations, “but it’s worth a look. Let’s go over a game plan at lunch and see if we can leave first thing tomorrow morning.” 

::::

No one knew where The Pit Stop came from. 

An underground coffee house in the style of the grittiest I-don’t-give-a-fuck dive bar in Portland wasn’t exactly _expected._ It opened at eleven at night and closed at eight in the morning _sharp._ The set up was meant to confuse people into thinking it was a bar, but it only took a second glance to correct that assumption. The lights were a mixture of standard white interlaced with purple bulbs, they had a staff bathroom in the back, and a single bathroom for customers that had _WHO GIVES A SHIT_ spray painted in yellow across the door. The menu was basic breakfast staples, eggs, toast, bacon, but Terrible Tuesdays were when the cooks went wild and made _whatever._ On Tuesdays, the price for their creations was always seven-fifty. 

Stiles’s first day had been a whirlwind of paperwork, apron-sizing, and meeting the staff. 

Isaac worked the coffee bar, a long stretch of wood with espresso machines and pour over filters. Stiles would join him in front-of-house, and while Isaac had moments of razor-sharp cynicism, he was a great teacher. 

Boyd and Erica were the chefs, Boyd the silent enforcer and Erica a wild tornado of energy and wit. The owner and sometimes-chef was Bobby Finstock, who was always in the kitchen on Terrible Tuesdays, and Stiles was pretty sure that while people came for a good deal on food, there was something to be said for the poetic obscenity that would come out of the kitchen whenever Finstock was in it. 

After the first month when Stiles’s nerves had settled and his bitter wounds had healed, he was comfortable shooting the shit with the staff. 

“I heard,” Erica slid a plate of pancakes and eggs over to Stiles, “that he was one of the founders of Starbucks but was ostracized from the Board of Directors.” 

“Nah.” Boyd sat next to Stiles at the bar, biting into a breakfast burrito. He smiled when Erica kissed his forehead before flipping him off. “There’s no way. I heard it’s a mob front, that all the tattoos on his arms have different meanings.” 

Stiles flicked the tangled roses tattoo on Boyd’s arm. 

“Don’t all tattoos have meanings?” 

Boyd rolled his eyes. 

“He’s holding down the fort and this place is just a front.” 

Isaac was toying around with making shapes with foam. What was supposed to be a fern looked more like a dick, but it made Isaac laugh as he slid it to a giggling customer. 

“When I lived in Philly there was a Papa Johns that was a front. My roommates and I passed it and all the lights were out, but you could still order from it. They’d just send over a pizza from Dominos, which would be free because it took more than a half hour. Once a month, my friends and I would have a pizza feast. _That_ place was a front,” Isaac opened the register once more people started rolling in after the drunk rush, “this is not a front.” 

“I think,” a gruff voice made the three of them jump even as a plate of mouth-watering tater-tots landed on the table, “you punks should mind your own business.” 

Crossed tattooed arms and a scowl weren’t enough to stop the three of them immediately reaching for tots, shoving them into their mouths with half-chewed _thank you, Finstock_ spilling out of their mouths. He didn’t contribute _or_ detract from the kind of questions that came with The Pit Stop. 

_Take it or leave it,_ was Finstock’s creed, and it made sense that bled over into his weird coffee shop. 

In a spur of adrenalin, Stiles reached out and shoved Finstock’s arm. 

“We’ll get it out of you one day, just watch.” 

Finstock rolled his eyes and took away Boyd’s empty plate. 

“Eat up, you’ll need the energy for the midnight rush.” 

Stiles remembered that night with a warm smile, still a new employee but the terror of _living in a new place, a new crazy job, and nothing in my bank account_ had faded into _holy shit this might work._

::::

The dining room table at their AirBnB was filled with travel brochures and auditing paperwork within minutes of Peter and Kira arriving. He thumbed through the binder the host put together, a bunch of tourist spots in Portland, and personal recommendations. He’d purposely kept one of his two suitcases empty, anticipating dropping a lot of money at Powell’s. 

Kira carefully whispered procedures to herself, her eyes sweeping over the most common spells circulated off-book. 

Luck, mild hexes, and charisma boosters were the most common unlicensed practices. Someone was always looking for an easy way toward money or sex. The kind of things that were easy to copy down, imitate, and reproduce for _relatively_ cheap. 

Most of the time it was a false alarm. Wards left behind from a careless customer, a spiteful neighbor calling in a fake report… Peter had seen all the boring reasons why an establishment would end up on UMPSA’s radar. 

“Pick out a place to order delivery from, I call the shower first.” Peter kicked off his shoes. “Tomorrow we can check out a ramen place Lydia recommended, and spend a couple hours in Powell’s.” He hummed, flipping over a page in the brochure. “Hm, apparently Portland is also known for their rose gardens, would you want to go to one?” 

Kira raised her eyebrows. 

“We could go to The Pit Stop in a couple hours when it opens.” 

Peter waved his hand, toeing off his socks as he unzipped his bag, pulling out his pajamas. 

“Nah. We just got off a plane and it will feel like two in the morning _if_ we show up the moment the doors open. We shower, we sleep, we see the sights, then we do our job. It will probably be nothing, and we can kill two more days here before we go home where I can finally quit in peace.” 

He closed the bathroom door behind before Kira could provide a rebuttal.

The moment the door closed, there was a familiar _whoomp_ as the sound was completely cut off from the other room. 

_We offer a homey one bedroom home with simple sound-proofing wards in the bathroom and bedroom (for discretion and peace of mind)._ It was an upscale place, though the kind of generic additions that had Peter automatically wrinkling his nose. The decorative tastes were more basic than the wards. 

A _Live, Laugh, Love_ poster hung above the toilet. 

He turned on the shower mid eyeroll. He stepped in before it was fully warm, impatient to get the stale airport air off his skin. Lukewarm water pooled at his feet. He lathered a generic brand of shower gel that was provided and scrubbed down his body, hard enough that the skin was red. 

_How many graduates of Blackwood Academy ended up doing auditing busywork,_ Peter wondered as he scrubbed. _How many of them stare at the same knock-off spells day after day?_

Peter turned around and stepped as close as he could to the showerhead, hoping the roar of water would be enough to stop a familiar headache from brewing. 

::::

Stiles worked a lot of retail jobs before he ended up at The Pit Stop. 

The key to a non-miserable workday came down to management. Shitty managers meant long days meant high turnover. 

Finstock swore like it was going out of style, no matter what his mood. His handwriting was terrible, he insisted on playing country music from three to four every morning, and when it was summer he unironically rocked jean shorts that had more frayed pieces than solid denim. He was a stickler for his employees being on time, and he’d constantly bark, “if you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re _late.”_ Closing up with him meant getting at least a half an hour of overtime because he had to triple-check the register and locks. 

He was also the best boss Stiles ever had. 

It was three-thirty, which meant a few regulars were slumped over at their tables, snoring into their arms, and a few people giggled, loopy from lack of sleep. Stiles sat at the bar for his break, and was surprised when Finstock slid over a stack of pancakes swimming in maple syrup. 

Usually Finstock was about protein and anything that would give his workers strength and energy, a lot of eggs, beans, and meat. “Sweet shit is for the lovebirds,” Finstock would say, gesturing to one of the couples that seemed to populate The Pit Stop more and more everyday. 

Five candles haphazardly speared the fluffy pancakes. 

“Blackberry pancakes. I got ‘em special at the farmers market, but don’t let any of the customers see it, because I used them all in this.” Finstock struck a match and lit the candles. “Happy birthday.” 

Stiles stared at the flames, at the homemade whipped cream that slumped to one side, the kind where Bobby always put brown sugar and just a dash of bourbon in at the end. 

“How did you— oh right. W-9.” 

He cut into the pancakes, ignoring the smirk on Finstock’s face as Miranda Lambert came on the jukebox. The first bite was, as expected, delicious. 

“Most of the others take their birthdays off.” 

Instead of immediately going back into the kitchen, Finstock sat next to him, his elbows on the bar, his eyes out on his domain while Stiles was turned the other way. While Miranda raked some cheating bastard over the coals with her lyrics, Finstock rolled his shoulders and waited. 

Stiles finished half his pancakes before he pulled the plate off the table, turning on his stool so he was more even with Finstock. He kept the plate in his lap, his fork hitting the ceramic every few seconds. 

“I like working here.” Finstock scoffed. Stiles rolled his eyes. “I _do._ Look, I was royally fucked the first time I rolled in here and you… you gave me a job and… shit man, I was still hungover when I was signing the paperwork I mean,” Stiles’s voice cracked, a traitorous flush rising in his cheeks, “you didn’t have to do any of that.” 

They sat through a few more songs, until Jolene came on.

“Anyone who’s been fucked by Blackwood Academy has my sincere sympathy.” 

Finstock had the kind of face where the softest lighting couldn’t hide the harsh lines that cut through his skin. Stiles laughed even though it wasn’t funny. 

During his job interview, when Finstock’s jaw cracked with a yawn before he drawled, _“how did you end up at The Pit Stop, kid?”_ Stiles had hiccuped into an embarrassing series of sobs that still made him blush when he thought about it. After a long series of non-coherent sentences that never quite connected, he managed to say _“Blackwood Academy”_ without losing himself to hysterics. The moment that prestigious magic university left his lips, Finstock hired him. 

“I always wanted to practice magic. I mean, who doesn’t, right? Like what kid would pass that shit up? No one.” Stiles jabbed his fork into the last of his pancakes. “No one ever told me how expensive it was. I saved up for five years, everything I had… and I went to BA for the aptitude test.” There were a bunch of different stages to the aptitude test, and all of them went through Blackwood. Once you had their numbers and approval, any applicant was free to go to other schools. Cheaper schools. “I went, I took the first few tests, and… at the last second, they stopped. Hidden costs, but,” Stiles shrugged, “this bully in my highschool, Jackson, his dad is on the Board.” Stiles shrugged again, hating how it only wound his shoulders up tighter. “I guess it was a final ‘fuck you.’ I saved up ten thousand dollars, and all of a sudden there were more fees that weren’t on any site or application, and I couldn’t get my money back because they’d already used resources to get the ball rolling.”

Finstock blew out an exhale. 

“Jesus.” 

“Yee-up.” 

He saw Finstock’s shoulders curl forward out of the corner of his eye, a blurry, shamed movement. It stung, but not as bad right after he’d been kindly escorted off Blackwood’s campus with raw, tear-streaked cheeks. Finstock’s hands came together, rubbing. Wringing. 

“Are you saving up to finish the payment?” 

“Fuck no.” Stiles straightened, meeting Finstock’s hard gaze without batting an eye. “Fuck ‘em. I’m not giving them more than I already have.” 

Finstock leaned back against the bar. 

“This place isn’t a magic supplement, kid. This is the service industry.” 

Stiles smiled, crooked and caffeinated. 

“I’m aware. Still love it. I’m not leaving unless you fire me.” 

Finstock rolled his eyes at that, shoving Stiles with a motion that looked more forceful than it actually was. 

“You’re like a fungus, you just get under the skin and stay there.” 

“Gee thanks, boss. I love it when you get all warm and fuzzy.” 

A few weeks later, to commemorate a year at The Pit Stop, Stiles got his first tattoo of a cup of coffee on his inner arm, just above his right elbow. 

::::

After a morning in the botanical gardens, ramen for lunch, and an evening at Powell’s, Peter and Kira were finally ready for The Pit Stop. 

“Remember, this is just a casual visit, nothing is set in stone. Most likely it’s a false alarm, and we’ll fill out the paperwork and go home.” Kira squared her shoulders like they were going into a boxing ring instead of a coffee shop. Peter plucked some lint off her shoulder with a smile. “Tell me our story.”

Kira had her compact out, applying a thin layer of blush with a heavier touch. 

“We’re here on business, and our flight is at seven in the morning. So we’re going to stay awake the best we can, and be back in DC tomorrow.” She shook out her arms and legs. “I’ve had four cocktails, and now I need coffee.” 

She had the tipsy walk down to a science, one arm looped with his, her center of balance varying every couple of steps. She’d giggle at anything, but never loud enough to be considered _drunk._ It was one-thirty, and they waited a few blocks away, watching until at least ten people had gone down the stairs, disappearing under a brick archway. 

Peter had been in all sorts of places, on varying scales of elegance. He’d seen endless attempts at being unique and memorable that all blurred together into one, mediocre mess. Peter was shocked when goosebumps crawled down his back as him and Kira took the first step. A wave of damp, coffee smell hit them _hard._ Kira’s tipsy facade wavered for the first few steps under the brick archway. 

“Oh wow,” Kira whispered when the walls cut off the sound from the street. 

The door had a smudged, stained glass window, and a crooked sign where Peter could barely make out _The Pit Stop._

He pushed open the door. 

::::

Stiles didn’t stay at The Pit Stop because Finstock was a great boss. That wasn’t the only reason.

The sweet spot at any retail job was money, the other workers, the management, and ways to find genuine specks of joy in the job itself. Stiles always had to trade these pieces for each other at his old jobs, but The Pit Stop was when it all came together. 

If Stiles was being totally honest, he didn’t give a shit about coffee or service. 

He liked _people,_ seeing different attitudes, mannerisms, and chemistry come clashing together… he devoured it _all._ Even the biggest asshole was a source of comedy, a way to bring their tight group of workers together in a united _can you believe this fucking guy?_

Ever since he was little, he liked watching people. When he was too shy, too _weird_ to hang out with, he never felt truly alone. Just because no one talked to him didn’t mean he couldn’t watch, that he couldn’t get to know the kids in his class just because they didn’t know him. Stiles had eyes, ears, and a halfway decent brain. He knew everything about his peers in high school, and had fun watching the people with good chemistry get together, and the ones with bad chemistry bristle and fracture. 

The Pit Stop was the more mature experience. 

The usual suspects came in when Isaac unlocked the deadbolts on the door. Other retail workers getting off a late shift and tipsy happy-hour hunters that needed to sober up for the walk home. A familiar buzz put a zing in Stiles’s step, better than a cup of coffee. He went to the tables, topping off the slowly sobering regulars, and that was when two new faces walked in. 

A young woman and a handsome man stumbled through the door. The woman was giggly but didn’t need to be helped to the bar stools. It was odd, because typically the last of the tipsies made it in by midnight, but it was just a little past one-thirty. 

But they were a part of the witching hour rush, so Stiles didn’t have much time to focus on the pair. He had three French presses ready, spacing them out by five seconds so he had time to stir, fill, and press without compromising any of them, while Isaac stuck to the more elegant espressos and lattes.

He dropped off a pair of mugs to the woman and her handsome companion, and later swung by to drop off the French Press, a rushed, “wait until the timer goes off before you press down, shouldn’t be more than three mintues,” before he was off like a shot, taking money and orders at rapid speed until things slowed down again around three. 

By the time Stiles was able to pick his head up for more than six seconds, the new pair was at a table. He replaced their empty French press with a fresh one, pointing to their timer and the man nodded, his smile polite but his eyes immediately returning to the woman. 

The real reason Stiles genuinely, truly, enjoyed retail… was people watching. 

Watching people, _especially strangers,_ was better than any drink Stiles had ever tasted. He loved the rush that came from observation, letting his imagination run wild, imagining their lives, their dreams. The familiar, giddiness that came from the chase of _watching_ made him smile to himself behind the bar. 

Isaac slid him a cup of hot chocolate.

“Ooh,” Isaac grinned. “Haven’t seen that face in a while. Who are we studying tonight?” 

Stiles turned his back to the open room. 

“The woman in the corner table with the man.” 

Isaac’s eyes swept in that direction briefly, a practiced motion that was over in seconds. 

“Pretty. He’s handsome too. If I had to pick out of the two, I would have thought you’d spend more time on him.” 

Stiles scoffed to cover up that Isaac was right. It _was_ strange, because the stranger was incredibly handsome in a very universal sense, from his clothes, bone structure, and posture. It was _very_ attractive, and yet Stiles didn’t feel a single _ping_ that he got from literally everyone else in The Pit Stop. When Stiles first saw the woman he felt the usual amount of interest, always eager to meet a new character, to feel out their rhythm in the shop. 

When he saw the man he didn’t feel anything, and Stiles wasn’t sure if it added to the allure or was… disturbing. 

It was easier not to think about it, to direct his attention to the woman who was cute and giggly, never dimming even as the minutes crawled by. 

Eventually the pair migrated to the bar. 

“Excuse me,” she leaned on the bar, “where’s your bathroom?” 

“Over there,” Stiles pointed towards the door, to the dark hallway that shot to the right. “Through the door with the yellow spray paint. You can’t miss it.” 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

She bounded away with a smile, her gratitude rushed out with over-caffeinated speed. Stiles smiled to himself, and jumped when the man sat at the bar, his cup hitting the wood expectantly. Stiles cleared his throat. 

“Black drip okay?” 

The man offered a thin, humorless smile.

“That’s perfect. Thank you.” 

Even up close, the man didn’t set off anything. Stiles felt like a pebble was in his shoe, something so small but feeling much bigger and annoying than it actually was. He swallowed down his discomfort. 

“How did you find The Pit Stop?” 

Each word was an awkward agony, so _basic_ Stiles wanted to die, but he wanted to get _something_ out of the stranger. He was unnaturally placid, absorbing any disturbance and giving _nothing_ back. The woman he was with was overflowing with personality, details, tiny vibrations that Stiles could feel and understand. 

The man didn’t feel like _anything._

“My colleague and I have an early flight out. We’d rather stay awake then make due on two hours of sleep.” His eyebrows raised at the end of his sentence when his companion remerged. “Her idea, not mine.” 

Stiles wanted to peel back the man layer-by-layer, to see what made him so different from every other person Stiles had come across. Why was he so _hidden_ even though Stiles was inches away? The longer Stiles was around him, the more it felt like he rushed up a flight of stairs and took an extra step. The uncomfortable _lurch_ of empty falling had slick sweat gathering at the base of Stiles’s spine. 

The woman returned, providing a sunny relief of tangible presence that _almost_ made up for her companion. 

He offered a dull smile, noncommittal enough to slide back to the machines and take other orders without coming off as rude. 

It was ten minutes to three, and Stiles wanted to see if all that bubbly, sweet energy was a harmonious counterbalance to one of the most discordant people Stiles knew. He just needed a look, a touch, a _feel._

He went to the jukebox, pressed the two keys with the most wear on them, and waited. 

::::

After the pretty young barista walked away, Kira’s smile dropped off in a morose sigh. Peter elbowed her side, sharp enough to make her wince. 

“Don’t be like that, there was a good chance that nothing was going to turn up.” 

Kira rested her cheek on her hand and poured herself another cup of coffee. 

“The reviews seemed so… _influenced,_ Peter. I mean, so many people just _happening_ to meet here? A coffee shop with crazy hours? Retail is not sexy, service staff aren’t there to be romantic foils… it just seemed so obvious that something else was going on.” 

Peter’s brows raised when her voice cracked. 

“Kira… this is nowhere near the first time we’ve come across a false alarm.” She turned away briefly, a quick glance at the rest of The Pit Stop. The last stragglers had left, a pattern they’d noticed would occur every two hours. For a few minutes, Peter and Kira would have the place to themselves before the next wave of insomniacs and hipsters arrived. She turned, hunched over her cup. “What’s so special about this place?” 

Long black hair fell forward, hiding her face as she heaved out a breath. 

“I don’t want you to quit.” Kira pushed her hair back, a crooked smile hiding the mist in her eyes. “I thought if we got lucky, found some big case, you’d stay. I know it’s boring, but,” the song on the jukebox ended just as Kira kicked his shin, “I had a lot of fun working with you.” 

Peter remembered when Kira started at UMPSA, not at all how Peter pictured the _Yukimura_ heir. 

The name _Yukimura_ was stained with knowledge, the kind of knowledge that came with a lot of _blood._ Just saying the name would leave the taste of gunpowder and ash behind on the tongue. When Peter took her under his wing, she’d met his eyes with a tight smile that pleaded for him to not ask the _obvious_ question, a question that Peter was _loath_ to have aimed at him. 

_How did you end up here?_

It burned on his tongue at The Pit Stop, after years of forging a friendship around _never asking the one question._

The jukebox hissed, and light tambourine and guitar riff filled the shop. The silence between them grew. Peter saw the moment Kira realized what Peter was going to do with the air he drew in slowly between his teeth. 

Then the lyrics started, a smoky, tongue-and-cheek _It takes a judge to get married, it takes a judge to get divorced, well the last couple years, spent a lotta time in court,_ a lot of things happened in quick succession that Peter would struggle to write down in his report. 

The song began, Peter was about to break his five year promise with Kira, and the doors to the kitchen were kicked open. 

Kira’s eyes were pried off him, centimeter by centimeter, as stomping footsteps had the cups shivering on the bar.

Over the hours they’d spent waiting for a staff member to slip, or a regular to meet with a rotation of saps looking to buy simple seduction boosters, Peter and Kira had gotten a good look at the staff. The cooks rarely came out unless it was for a break or coffee. The two younger ones were out more often, and would often go back with extra cups, presumably for the man who was singing along to the song word-for-word. He hit his palm on the wood, crouching down low before springing up to crow, _“But then he got along with a couple road whores,”_ with a beaming grin that didn’t match the lyrics. 

The song continued, he kept slapping the bar, and the blonde barista giggled, grabbing one of the regular coffee pots. The man held out the cup in his hand, never pausing in his off-key singing. The cute barista with the moles had his arm draped over the jukebox, and Peter noticed his smile was… _anticipatory._

Peter had time to wonder what the young man was waiting for, since the other barista was familiar enough with outbursts from the strange cook with two full tattooed sleeves. 

The song ended, and the man’s thumping ceased. He caught his breath, his chest heaving under a neon pink apron. Peter’s cup hadn’t crept that far away from him, but Kira’s hovered around the edge of the bar. The slide of metal against ceramic made goosebumps spring up on Peter’s skin as her spoon tilted over the edge. 

A soft sound left Kira’s throat as the spoon tilted and fell, clattering to the floor. 

::::

Yukimura Security prided itself on intricate wards with iron defenses. Pristine linework, exact angle measurements, and total symmetry were the key to seamless defense. Yukimura wards were about subtle hints, a build up before being fully activated. Clients appreciated being able to anticipate threats in that regard, without having entire houses or people go on full lockdown. 

The Pit Stop was the first time Kira saw a Yukimura ward activate with no warning. There hadn’t been a whisper of _watch out._ Kira was watching the cook sing, and then...

The spoon fell. 

When Kira had combed through the reviews and posts about The Pit Stop, the most common element was the description of things _sliding_ into place. Time would slow, miniscule moments would stack and arrange themselves to create a first meeting, a glance across the room, a laugh at the right time, at the right _breath—_

Rudimentary charms were sloppy bursts of adrenaline and confidence. They were easy to identify and confiscate. 

Seconds ticked down, to what, Kira wasn’t sure. The tattooed loudmouth was turning, an eternity spinning on his heel toward the spoon. 

She caught a glimpse of his eyes, still crinkled at the sides from his toothy smile, and noticed they were a pleasant, olive-hazel. 

All the wards she carried activated at once, a low _whooomp_ popping Kira’s ears so hard she felt the warm rush of blood trickle down her earlobes. Kira had seen her mother test out every new security ward, and the _high-impact_ tests were always done behind thick plexiglass with goggles equipped. 

Her teeth vibrated in her gums as she kicked off her stool, trying to feel for a _direction_ to wherever the threat was coming from, but no matter how many steps she took, the droning _hum_ increased. 

“Whoever is using unlicensed magic, come forward and stop at once,” Peter was on his feet, ready to activate his own wards, one hand by his pockets for heavy-duty boosters they only carried in case of emergency. The Pit Stop shuddered, glasses rattling on the walls. The staff, to Kira’s annoyance, looked _frightened._ “This is your final warning,” Kira managed without stammering. 

She counted down from three in her head, the Yukimura wards bursting with energy, until she let the dam break. 

Personal Yukimura wards, for private use by _privileged_ individuals, had a seven foot diameter with lines that were _exactly_ two inches thick. Kira’s ward had two circles enclosing a polygon rune with antimony, platinum, and amalgamation symbols at the corners of the base triangle. Burning ozone filled the room, the light under Kira’s feet crackling as electric arcs flung up and out, hissing and _breaking_ against the unseen threat. 

She heard Peter’s wards activate, a clash of fire joining her electricity. Tendrils of her family’s legacy writhed between her fingers as she squeezed and thought, _rip it apart._

Electricity pulsed and rose, finding its target, _above_ Kira, just below the ceiling. Peter sent fire to assist, and the ceiling pulsed, the image of wood _warping_ as whatever glamor was in place dissipated. 

Kira expected to see shoddy line work with uninspired and impatient designs that often led to intense activations and immediate burnouts. 

The glamor fell, a bridal veil snatched away by a vicious wind. 

Her electric wards surged up against a flesh colored, gelatinous mass. Infinite eyes stared at her, different shapes and colors all swiveling at her, _watching._ Countless mouths sighed dreamily, some grinning. Impossible hands wove between flushed flesh, fingers spindling and plucking at threads, thin pearl-like strings that spread out like spiderwebs. One of the mouths giggled, and Kira’s throat closed because it _sounded like her._

“What the fuck _is that thing?”_

A shrieking voice cut through the growing hysteria in Kira’s chest. She tore her eyes away, the chef’s screams grounding her. There was no backup, there was no time to collect samples, pictures, to quarantine and isolate. It was just her and Peter up against something Kira had never seen before. There was no time. 

With her heart pounding and electricity surging, Kira lifted her arm to her mouth and bit in deep, tasting blood with a desperate plea: 

_Kill it._

::::

“What the fuck _is that thing?”_

The chef who’d been so jovial moments before had enough sanity left to voice the only thought in Peter’s head. The man was pressed against the shelves that held all the cups, eyes wide with terror at the _thing_ that spread across the ceiling. Peter was about to shout to take cover, but the man snapped out of it, pushing the blonde barista to the ground while reaching out to the cute barista. 

“Stiles,” the man shouted, _“move your fucking ass!”_

The young man bolted, leaping into the man’s open arms, who clumsily pulled him up and over the bar, all three of them ducking for cover. _Good,_ Peter thought, just as turned to see Kira bite into her own arm. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit._

Electricity that had already been _surging_ hard enough that Peter felt it vibrate in his chest, quadrupled in power, tinged red since the wards detected that their charge was bleeding. It was a dangerous move, a last-ditch effort that would boost a ward to it’s breaking limit, doing anything to protect the subject and kill the threat. If it burned out… if it burned out, the damage to Kira would be…

Peter stepped closed to Kira, fighting his shaking legs, and let his ward kick into full gear. The _thing_ above them… the longer Peter looked, the more it felt like he was going mad, seeing the effervescent strands twinkling, connecting to Kira and stretching over Peter’s head. 

He lifted his arm and slotted his teeth over the old scar he had since he was a foolish young man. 

Peter clamped his jaws down and let the Hale ward go wild.

His own glamor fell away, blown into dust as flames shot up, joining the pillars of electricity. Old wounds bubbled and burned. Peter raised his eyes back up to the mockery of magic runes on the ceiling, the taste of blood in his mouth, and envy in his heart. It was awful, one of the most horrific things Peter had ever seen… and yet it hurt, to burn it away without so much as taking a picture, sketching out the placements of eyes instead of runes, mouths in place of steady lines. Fingers instead of flat surface foundation.

Kira and Peter hadn’t been at it for longer than four seconds, their blood feeding their wards, when the thing on the ceiling shuddered, then disappeared. 

The moment it was gone, the electricity and fire dropped. 

The lights flickered back on and the music played. Peter walked behind Kira, turning so she was hidden behind his body as he pulled out his ID and badge. 

“This establishment is currently under investigation by Unlicensed Magical Practice and Solicitation Auditing.” 

Two cooks peeked out from the kitchen, eyes wide, and the three men behind the bar slowly stood, hands raised. The oldest man, with wild hair and an affection for country music, jutted his chin out. 

“You think one of _us_ made that thing? Are you fucking _nuts?”_

Despite his job _usually_ being a boring, monotonous slog, Peter was grateful for the badge and the authority it gave him in that moment. He wore his title like a cloak, his back toward the site of… _whatever_ that magic had been, his eyes steely and his jaw tight as he stepped closer to the bar. 

“Everyone here will be interviewed and cross-examined.” He heard Kira go to the door, flipping on the switch so the neon CLOSED sign lit up. She pressed a UMPSA seal on the interior, a bright white circle appearing around it, flaring bright before fading to a dull, steady glow. Peter fixed the head chef with a no-nonsense glare. “Do you have an office we could use?” 

“Sure.” The chef shook out his arms, rolling his shoulders as he swept his hand out in a sarcastic _your majesty_ gesture. “Right this way.” 

::::

Finstock held open the doors to the kitchen with surprisingly steady hands. The Auditors barely glanced at him, their jaws tight as they walked into the kitchen first. 

“Finstock,” Erica hissed, her eyes shining, wild and scared. “What the _fuck?”_

He paused, hands holding the doors open as he looked back at his crew. They looked so young, wide-eyed and terrified. _Fuck,_ was his only thought, on loop in his head ever since that _thing_ appeared on the ceiling. The older agent cleared his throat. Finstock ground his teeth. 

“Isaac, whip up some hot chocolate. Erica, Boyd, get some toast going, maybe some soup but nothing with heavy dairy because, frankly, I don’t know if any of us are going to keep it down. Stiles,” the kid jumped at his name, his cheeks an alarming shade of grey. “Start clean-up, but no one,” Finstock pointed at the whole group, _“no one_ is stepping further than behind the bar until I say-so.” 

He turned away before any of them could ask more questions, because the moment they did, a _hint_ of protest and Finstock’s mask would fall to pieces. The kids didn’t need a blubbering man curled up on the kitchen floor. They needed their asshole boss. 

Finstock’s “office” was one of three storage closets with a school desk he found on the side of the road. The walls were lined with shelves, bags of flour, sugar, salt, and coffee. The only wall space was behind the desk, a narrow strip of brick that held seven framed certificates. He ducked under his desk, his hand slapping around in the dark until he pulled out a First-Aid kit. 

“Clean those before they get infected.” He slumped on the rickety chair. “God knows how many fucking health code violations I just broke, bringing bleeding _people_ through the kitchen area.” He crossed his arms, digging his fingers into his sleeves to stop himself from helping the woman wrap her wound. Flakes of dried blood clung to the corner of her lips. “I thought the Auditors had to give _notice_ for formal investigations. Did you assholes _know_ that thing was there? Also, who the _fuck_ are you?” 

He let his lips pull back, his teeth chomping at the words. He kept his back slouched, his legs splayed, anything to cling to the very _false_ idea that he wasn’t seconds away from pissing himself and crying. 

The man took the rubbing alcohol from his partner, and they both held out their IDs and badges in synchronized movement. 

“Peter Hale,” he said. 

“Kira Yukimura,” she whispered. 

Peter fixed Finstock with a no-nonsense glare.

“We only have to inform the establishment of an investigation if there is evidence that there are illegal magic practices and distribution taking place. We were just following up on leads, and frankly, I thought we were going to leave without having to return tonight.” 

Finstock raised his eyebrows. 

_“Leads?_ About _what?_ This is a coffee place, we don’t have magic _shit_ here.” 

Kira cleared her throat and dug around her bag. Finstock felt like a horse, teeth chomping the bit, as she pulled packets out of her bag. She held them to him, her gaze meeting his for a fleeting moment before she lowered her eyes, her head bowing forward. 

“I gathered reviews of this place.” She paused, drawing her arms close to hug across her stomach, “A lot of couples met here. People who had no other commonalities in their lives except that they happened to be at The Pit Stop at the right time to meet and get a date.” Finstock skimmed through the printed out pages, eyebrows crawling up his forehead. “The words ‘magic,’ and ‘fate,’ were used a significant amount of times. We wanted to see if there was any foul play, maybe an unlicensed matchmaker or someone selling charisma boosters.” 

Finstock licked his thumb, yellow and pink highlighting the most damning passages. 

“Well fuck,” he forced a weak laugh, “how are you not constantly at Disneyland?” Expectedly, they didn’t crack a smile. Finstock slumped. “You think that _thing_ on the ceiling was illegal matchmaking? I’m not a fucking expert but that thing looked… _alive.”_

“Yes, well, we can make some calls to people who might know what we’re dealing with,” Kira quickly answered. 

“I’ve seen similar attempts,” Peter interrupted, and they both looked at each other. Peter crossed his arms. “It _could_ be something, a _living thing_ but… we need to eliminate that you or one of the staff created it, that it’s not some new kind of summoning circle.” 

_It had eyes, fingers, and mouths, what kind of summoning circle is that,_ Finstock wanted to scream. He stood up, his chair squeaking against the tile. 

“Then I’ll make it easy for you. You can take me off the list.” 

He pointed to the framed certificates. Peter and Kira stepped around his desk, leaning forward to read. Kira reacted first, her cheeks burning red as she averted her eyes, like most people did when they took a closer look. 

_Robert Finstock evaluation results: Devoid._

There was always that _sting_ of shame and pity, the same sick thrill that only came from uncovering a stranger’s shameful secret. Instead of hiding it, Finstock had each one framed and hung on the wall. 

Peter Hale’s eyes narrowed. 

“I didn’t know that the Finstock family had a son.” 

Finstock grinned, not at all friendly. 

“My folks would be glad to hear that.” He took a step closer to the wall and sneered at Kira. “They were so confident in their own genetics that me being completely without magic was simply not an option. It took them seven evaluations from the Blackwood Academy to finally accept it.” He tapped the glass, right over the wax seal next to the Headmaster’s signature. “Not a drop in me.” 

Peter drew back, his eyes already disinterested now that Finstock was off the suspect list. _Good,_ Finstock thought with a vicious twist in his stomach. Kira lingered, no doubt stuck on the Finstock name, the fortune that loomed over every letter, old-old-old as dirt money, foundations of American Capitalism kind of money. 

“Why did you open The Pit Stop?” 

She held his eyes without a hint of sarcasm. 

“Honestly?” Finstock drew in a slow breath. “Restaurants are one of the least profitable businesses. My parents might be ashamed that I don’t have any magical ability, but they still have enough pride to not trust their money to someone not within their bloodline. I want to burn through as much of their money as I can.” He opened the door to his office with a salute. “I’ll send one of them in next.”

He didn’t wait for a confirmation as he shut the door. He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, hitting his cheeks until they stopped feeling numb. He spit a couple of times, wondering if he could get himself to vomit, but alas, his stomach was sturdier than he initially believed. 

The wave of relief when the kids saw him emerge was so sweet he had to sit down. 

“Boyd, you’re next. We’re doing this shit alphabetically.” Before Boyd could tense up, Finstock clapped his hand on his shoulder. “It’s just a bunch of buaurcratic trash, interviewing us to eliminate any foul play before they call in the big guns to figure out whatever the _fuck_ was on our ceiling.” Finstock shook Boyd the way he would when he’d nail a new concoction on Terrible Tuesdays. “You’ll be fine, I promise.” 

Boyd nodded and went into the kitchen. Finstock sighed, his elbows hitting the bar painfully. Isaac poured him a large cup of hot chocolate, Stiles passed over the plate of toast, and Erica gently spooned hand-whipped cream into his mug. 

Even though the hot chocolate needed to be cooler, he swallowed it, not feeling the burn on his tongue. 

_Fuck._

::::

The moment Finstock left his office, Kira was on him.

“What happened to your _face?”_ Her fingers hovered over the right half of Peter’s face, at the old burns that melted down his temple, to his cheek, eye, and the corner of his mouth. “Did that happen from your wards? We need to call a doctor—” 

“It’s fine.” Peter’s heart ached, the unfiltered deluge of _sincere worry_ blooming like a bruise. He was used to disgust and blame. He forgot what sympathy felt like, when someone expressing concern didn’t send immediate barbs of rage skittering across his skin like glass. “This is from an old… experiment. All healed.” Kira’s fingers touched the scars, her eyes tracing the dips in his skin, the waxy, pearl-shimmer coating across the scars. She made a soft, pained sound in her throat. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.” 

Kira Yukimura held his gaze even when she took her hand away.

“I never saw it before.” 

Peter heaved out a sigh, picking up approaching footsteps. 

“That’s because I had to burn through a very expensive glamor spell to deal with… whatever that was.” 

It wasn’t _just_ his face. Kira bit her lip as she took in more details. Peter’s hair wasn't perfectly groomed and styled. It was long on the left side and down the back, but the right, where his face had the most damage, was unevenly shorn. He didn’t like the feeling of hair on his scars, and he wasn’t going to drop his glamor for the best hair stylist, not when he could just _glamor_ the image he wanted. His nails lost the manicured look, the bags under his eyes were visible, and his right eye gained a milky sheen. 

Vernon Boyd was the next interviewed. He was quiet, firm with minimum politeness. 

Isaac Lahey followed. He was sweet, shy, and nervous.

Erica Reyes kicked the door the moment Isaac’s interview was done. She sat with crossed arms, chin out, and curled lips that said _try me, motherfucker._

None of them were even close to capable of the magic needed to either summon or… _twist_ magic into the shape that haunted The Pit Stop’s ceiling. Erica left with expected flourish, a loud _slam_ of the door and a heaved sigh. 

Kira massaged her face and Peter rolled out his shoulders. 

UMPSA was about finding magic users who were trying to make a quick cash grab, usually with the minimal amount of proper schooling, long enough to nail the basics before leaving. As far as Peter could tell, none of the staff had formal magic schooling. Certainly not enough to profit off it. Kira dug her thumb into her palm. 

“You’ve seen something like that before?” 

Her voice was barely above a whisper. She glanced up at him, not lingering over his changed appearance. 

“I have.” Peter’s heart thudded against his chest at the foggy memory of it, all his hard work finally providing _fruit._ Even if the fruit burned him, he’d still _done something_ he’d never seen before. “Have you?” 

“N-no.” She stared at the door, waiting for their last interview. “Peter, when I looked at it… I swear I saw my eyes.” She shuddered. “My eyes, my mouth, my fingers… some weren’t mine but… most of them _were._ If you really think someone made that, if it’s some kind of… magic… then someone made it in my image.” 

The door opened. 

Stiles Stilinski slipped in, eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. When he lifted his gaze, his entire body _flinched_ when he saw Peter. Peter rolled his eyes, sitting in Finstock’s chair as Kira shifted to the side, resting her arm on a bag of flour. 

“Mr. Stilinski, my name is Peter Hale, this is my partner Kira Yukimura and we work for Unlicensed Magical Practice and Solicitation Auditing.” The young man was _still staring,_ and Peter afforded _minimal_ patience to children, not adults. “Is my face going to be a problem? Our questions are brief, but we need you to focus.” 

Stiles blinked, _finally_ meeting Peter’s eyes. 

“It’s no problem, Mr. Hale, sir.” 

Peter watched the word _sir_ sour on Stiles’s tongue. The young man winced at the forced formality. 

“Mr. Hale is fine.” 

Like the other employees, Stiles had a cluster of tattoos on his right arm, coffee cups, poetry excerpts, small shapes of animals and plants that no doubt had some personal significance. He was the newest hire, though he’d been under Finstock’s employment for three years. When Peter looked at Stiles he saw nothing out of the ordinary. A tired, frightened young man who was uncomfortable with authority figures and disfiguration. 

_Typical,_ Peter drummed his fingers on the desk, disappointed, relieved, and impatient all at once. 

“Have you ever practiced magic or made the attempt to be schooled in magic by any of the certified academies?” 

Every one of them had _not_ dabbled in magic more than what was provided by their public schools. The unspoken _if I did, do you think I’d be working here_ was loud in each answer. 

Stiles cleared his throat. 

“I haven’t practiced but,” he wrung his hands. “I have made an attempt to be schooled.” 

“Attempt?” Peter raised his eyebrows. “Could you elaborate, please?” 

Stiles grunted, a short, guttural sound of annoyance and shame. He drew in a breath, and Kira’s phone went off. Kira flinched, almost spilling the flour as she scrambled to dig into her purse. Her knuckles were white as the screen illuminated her face. 

“Um,” she steeled her shoulders. “It’s my mother, she must have felt a fracture in my ward.” Kira hesitated, her brows furrowed. “I can ignore—” 

“It’s fine.” Peter swept his hand toward the door. “I can handle this. Take your time.” 

She was out within seconds, the door closing firmly behind her as her shoes click-click-clicked away on the kitchen tile. Peter met Stiles’s gaze. 

“I tried to get an aptitude test at Blackwood Academy.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows.

“Tried? Aptitude tests are cut and dry. Either you get one or you don’t.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes, his arms hugging tight around his stomach. 

“Yeah, well, tell that to the fucking Board. I saved up, I gave them my money, and they never gave me my results. Said I’d need more than double what I gave them to… _finalize the findings._ Couldn’t get whatever it was they worked out in the end, so,” Stiles held out his palms, facing out and down. “Here I am.” 

Now that Peter was closer, he saw that Stiles’s terror was different than the others. 

Finstock and his merry band of misfits were horrified, disgusted, and upset at the unknown _thing_ that had invaded their space. That something so _alien_ had been so close to them, for who knows how long, and not one of them had so much as a _clue_ until Kira’s ward kicked into overdrive. 

Stiles’s eyes weren’t as wide, his lips weren’t as taught. 

Peter thought of how Stiles’s eyes had slid right off him when him and Kira first entered The Pit Stop. His attention was obviously set on Kira, not obvious enough to be flirtatious, but still noticeable. 

He was terrified, but it was terror of _recognition._

_“Peter, when I looked at it… I swear I saw my eyes.”_

Saliva gathered in Peter’s mouth, an old, forgotten hunger gnawing at the pit of his stomach. It was the kind of hunger that no food would ever satisfy. 

“Have you ever seen anything like this before, Stiles?” Peter held his eyes, never letting him go. “Be honest. Think about it really hard.” 

The clock ticked closer to dawn. Stiles’s breathing evened out, and he was staring at Peter’s scars once more, slowly. Slow enough that Peter felt every detail being catalogued, centimeter by centimeter. Peter’s automatic anger fizzled out, because the pity he always assumed people held over him like a guillotine, was simply not there. Stiles’s cheeks regained the color, his pupils blew wide the more details he took in. 

“I couldn’t see your face before. Your _real_ face.” 

Peter’s mouth was dry, a creeping sensation of being observed in a completely new way cascaded over him. His arm throbbed, the blood burning where his teeth had broken his skin. 

“I paid for a very thorough glamor.” 

Stiles smiled, his shoulders slack and Peter was struck by how _beautiful_ he was, not a wrinkle or crease from terror. 

“Sounds expensive.” 

Out of the corner of Peter’s eye, a thin, luminescent strand stretched from Stiles’s chest towards Peter. It was like a spider’s web, a single thread, and Peter knew if he looked down to see if it connected to Peter’s jacket, it would disappear. He didn’t move his eyes, he fought against the instinctual urge to _investigate,_ and remained still. 

::::

Stiles’s secret wasn’t that he liked watching people, or that he never finished his aptitude test from Blackwood Academy. 

His secret, his deepest darkest secret that he’d never confess to anyone while he had a sound mind was that… the more he heard about what classes were like at Blackwood, the more he realized he’d never learn _why_ he liked looking at people. Stiles had a laptop and a ravenous curiosity, of _course_ he’d gone to forums with wards, shaky-cam footage of Blackwood lectures, and meetups for people who wanted to buy boosters. Even online, Stiles was a voyeur, watching, but never participating. 

The only person who came close to knowing what Stiles could see was his mother, and that had been because he’d been too young to know any better. 

_“Don’t you see the little strings?”_ Whenever dad would make them go to the mall to get new clothes, Stiles would try to hide in the least populated corner, his mom always managing to find him before he could have a full panic attack. When she held his hand, he’d feel better, and that was when he tried to explain what he saw. _“Connecting people.”_

Mom gave him that smile his teachers gave the other kids when they talked about imaginary friends. He never mentioned it again.

Stiles couldn’t look away from the connections, some were thin lines of information, others _huge_ tendons, a well-worked muscle that _bound_ people together. The more he looked, the more he saw, and as he grew older… he started to push good matches together. 

A dropped pen, a slower route, and switching up a brand at a grocery store, little changes, nudges, and Stiles could _feel_ strands connecting, getting stronger. 

The Pit Stop made it easy. He had a controlled space, a variety of tools, and patience. Little nudges resulted in eyes meeting, numbers exchanged, winding tighter and so bright that Stiles wondered if he’d go blind one day. 

“I see,” Stiles knew it was rude to stare, but now that he could really _see_ Peter Hale… he could also see the thousands of strings between them, thin strands thrumming together, shimmering like opals in the sun. “I see connections between people. I can tell,” Stiles swallowed, his eyes dry, his skin itching, “if people will be good together. It’s fun to me,” he exhaled dreamily. “It feels good.”

It was easy, going through life stepping through strands, following strings and gently pulling to make the ends meet. Tiny strands of light, wanting to be closer. All Stiles did was give them a push in the right direction. 

The threads that grew between him and Peter were thick, braided. 

:::: 

Talia was the brave Hale. When she was young there was no rock left unturned, no shadow too dark, and no storm too thunderous to make her afraid. 

Peter was the curious Hale. When he was young his first word was ‘why,’ books were never enough, and life’s lack of answers gave him migraines. 

Talia and Peter graduated from Blackwood Academy with high honors, and both went into the private sector, a research division that worked in high-level contracts. Talia thrived, no executive came close to intimidating her. Peter excelled, finally satisfied with the resources at his fingertips. Contracts and guidelines didn’t matter to him, now Peter could _finally_ chase what Blackwood Academy was too afraid to fund. 

He got close, and when the time came to be brave, Peter ran.

Phantom tingles buzzed beneath scar tissue. Memories of coming face-to-face with the impossible, and being too cowardly to accept it. His sister had found him in the corner of the lab, his arm torn up from his own teeth, third degree burns on half his face and down his back, his powerful security ward shattered, and nothing in the strange summing circles he’d intricately laid out on the floor in viscera and twine. The only reason he wasn’t institutionalized was because the contractors hated attention. 

_“I found a better fit for you,”_ Talia said, meeting his eyes for the first time the moment he activated his glamor. _“Unlicensed Magical Practice and Solicitation Auditing had an open manager position, I know the HR rep.”_ Peter made a noise, his lips still too raw, too _melted_ to speak. _“Peter, it’s for the best. I know it’s boring, but if it’s boring then you won’t do anything dangerous.”_

Peter’s heart hammered in his chest the same way it had during the _incident._ He didn’t dare move his eyes off Stiles, but his peripheral vision was better than most. 

Countless hands sighed across the walls, warm brown eyes opened, and luminescent scar tissue webbed between any open space, until they were encased.

Entombed. 

“You’ve seen something like this before.” Stiles’s voice was tight, excited, scared, and confident. “I can tell by your face.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow.

“What about my face?” 

Stiles smirked.

“Not your scars. Your expression. Out there,” Stiles motioned behind him, even though the door had vanished, covered in eyes, lips, and familiarity. “You’d seen something like this before.”

Peter nodded, blood roaring in his ears. _Kira’s just outside, she must be coming back,_ Peter thought, and then realized he didn’t necessarily want her to return. She would, Peter was sure of it, but… 

Stiles stepped closer. The thin strings were tight, but didn’t hurt. Peter leaned forward, bringing his knee up on the desk when he thought he’d lose his balance. Stiles’s fingers closed around Peter’s wrist. He was shaking, his breath coming in short bursts against Peter’s cheek. Stiles’s throat clicked. 

“We don’t have to be scared anymore.” 

The threads tightened, and Peter’s nose dragged against Stiles’s cheek. 

“I’m not sure that’s true.” 

Stiles drew back, enough that Peter could see his nervous, hopeful smile. 

“Yeah, but we’re not alone anymore.”

There was no unseen fire, no instant bubbling flesh and white-hot pain to tear Peter’s focus from the impossible. Stiles placed his hands on Peter’s cheeks, his thumb running over uneven tissue. He was getting closer, no matter how wide Peter opened his eyes, everything was out of focus. 

Soft lips pressed against his, and Peter breathed for what felt like the first time. 

::::

Kira stepped out of the UMPSA building’s elevator, the _ding_ preceding her fast-paced steps. She had her backpack secured across both her shoulders and smiled at their night security guard. He nodded back, a light smile on his face, before returning his eyes to the camera feed. Kira left her building like every other day, walking down the street a half-mile to the subway station, her pass in one hand, her music playing through her phone in the other. She hummed along to the tune, idly tapping her foot as she swayed in the subway car. 

If she listened to her favorite songs, she wouldn’t think about the wiry strands of grey at her temples. If she remembered to smile at the security guard, then she wouldn’t think of what it was like to have a thousand of her own eyes staring her down. If she kept moving, she’d never have to stop and _think_ for more than two seconds. 

Peter Hale despised routine. 

Kira Yukimura hadn’t realized how much she loved her routine until it was the only thing she had. 

Her stop had a bunch of flowers at the subway entrance, planted in a desperate attempt to chase away the smell of urine. Rowdy and rough bars were always open on Kira’s street. She side-stepped drunks and ducked into the 7-11. The kid behind the counter didn’t look up from his phone as she got a small bag of chips. 

One song ended, and Kira’s shoes crunched on the gravel as she turned… to see a woman sitting on her apartment building’s stoop. 

Kira paused, her steps stuttering enough for her earbuds to fall out. A sea of sound flooded her senses. The screaming neighbor couple, a crying baby, pulsing music at a bar… all of it digging in and _pulling_ Kira into reality. Her fingers shook, her heartbeat rabbit-fast, like that time in Oregon— _no._ Kira dug her teeth into her tongue, desperate to hear a _whisper_ of whatever song was next.

“Excuse me,” the woman wore nice slacks and a designer bag hung from her shoulder. “Are you Kira Yukimura?” Kira stilled, reality’s roar quieting as the woman gave her a once-over. “I’m Talia Hale, Peter’s sister.” 

All the hot air Kira had stored inside, all the distractions and routines, left her in a long sigh. 

“Oh.” Kira slung her backpack off her shoulders and dug around for her keys. “Want to come inside?”

Kira was able to afford a one bedroom apartment if she went three subway stops past where gentrification was starting to kick in. It was an old building with thin walls and a single window AC unit in Kira’s bedroom. The walls were a pale yellow, the fake wood floors warped in some areas. Kira could tell Talia wasn’t used to chipped paint and loud neighbors. Kira wasn’t surprised when Talia stayed in the doorway, her grip tight on her bag. 

“I’ll be brief, Kira.” Talia was just as stern as Peter described, though his drunken descriptions after holiday parties always took a hyperbolic turn. Kira felt a brutal _squeeze_ in her chest, her fingers _aching_ to put her earbuds back in. “Have you seen my brother recently?” 

Kira saw the question coming from a mile away, and _still_ her heartbeat stuttered. Her neighbors began their evening fight, the first stage of passive-aggressive remarks half-shouted from the kitchen. Normally, Kira would have been plugged into her computer, watching whatever latest thing went viral, listening to music, whatever it took to drown it all out until she couldn’t keep her eyes open. That night, she hugged her bag to her chest. 

“Not since he quit.” Kira’s grip on her phone tightened. “Sometimes he’ll send me memes and stuff.” 

Talia looked at her like she had grown three heads. 

“He sends you _what?”_ Kira held out her phone. Talia stepped off the doormat, pulling Kira’s phone into her grip. She scrolled through Kira’s messages, her eyebrows raised and a breathless laugh leaving her. “Huh. I always thought this kind of thing was beneath him.” Talia’s eyes slid to Kira as she returned her phone. “No offense.” 

Kira leaned back in her chair. 

“Did something happen?” 

Kira hated that she only sounded tired, like she was too exhausted to feel concern for a former coworker. A friend. Talia gathered up her bag and had a hand on Kira’s door. 

“No. Not really. I just was worried, but if he’s making regular contact with you, then I’m satisfied.” 

Talia tipped her hand, like she was wearing a hat, and was gone. Kira slumped in her chair. Talia, for as smart and driven as Peter had described, hadn’t noticed that every picture Peter sent was always at 4 PM. Every two days, Kira could depend on a ping at four. 

The day the regular texts stopped was the day of the Blackwood Fires. 

Even layered in distraction, Kira couldn’t avoid it. People were leaning over cubicle walls to shout the news, her phone was flashing with updates, and her boss sent out an email about upping security protocols. 

Someone had started a fire in the Blackwood Academy Archives. They’d lost centuries of student records. Matches and gasoline wouldn’t have been enough, not for Blackwood security. Her coworkers were flushed with sadistic excitement, all throwing out possible creators of wards capable of burning through Blackwood defenses. 

“Kira,” one of them yelled from across the floor, “you’d have a better idea out of any of us, who do you think provided the ward? How much would it have cost?” 

She was on a flight to Portland the next day.

::::

The Pit Stop was exactly as Kira remembered it. 

Her feet were numb as she snapped a quick picture of the sign on the door. She sent it to Peter even though she hadn’t heard from him in days. She took a deep breath before she opened the door. 

Even though it had been almost a year, a rush of familiarity overcame her. The jukebox still played in the corner, couples still sat at the tables, and Isaac Lahey still poured coffee at the bar. Kira’s eyes flickered to the ceiling, but nothing was there. She sat at the bar, her bag in her lap. It stung when Isaac did a double-take and flinched. 

He slid over a cup of black coffee, not saying a word before he hurried to the back. 

_Yeah, I deserve that,_ Kira sighed. He returned within minutes, focusing on the other guests with a sunny smile. Her fingers itched to get out her earbuds, to open up any and _every_ app on her phone as a distraction. She clenched her fists on her knees, fighting the urge. The kitchen door opened, and Robert Finstock stepped out, apron dusted with flour and his sleeves rolled up. She noticed he had three new tattoos. 

“You’re back.” He crossed his arms, his scowl justified. “Any cosmic horror nightmares I gotta fucking worry about?” 

“No.” Kira rushed out. “No, no. At least, unless something else has happened—?” 

“Fuck no.” He grabbed a mug off the wall behind him and refilled Kira’s cup before he topped off his own. “I would have called you guys.” 

Peter and Kira had offered their cards after Stiles Stilinski’s interview. Finstock had snatched them out of their hands, rough enough that the edges cut into Kira’s palm. _“Full offense,”_ he’d sneered, _“but I hope to never see your fucking faces again.”_ Kira knew it was fear, that animals often bared their teeth at danger. Kira slouched around her coffee, taking a long sip. 

Isaac ground up fresh beans, Erica ran food to a table, and the jukebox switched songs. Observing other people’s routines made something unwind in Kira’s chest. 

“What about you?” She jumped at Finstock’s voice, his gaze harsh. “You okay?” 

“Y-Yeah.” 

His lips twisted into an unhappy smirk. 

“Bullshit.” He refilled her cup. “Where’s your partner?” 

“He quit.” Kira took a sip, liking how it burned. “Two weeks after,” she waved her hand around, motioning to the entire shop. Finstock raised his eyebrows, whistling low. Kira shook her head. “He’d been threatening to quit since I started. It’s weird, he’d been saying it for so long, but it still surprised me when he actually, you know, _did it.”_ She cleared her throat after a horrendous voice crack. “Anyway,” she straightened, “where’s the other barista? Stilinski?”

Finstock drained his cup. 

“Quit.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he scowled into a heavy sigh. “Me too.” 

The natural bubble of silence swelled, and Kira took a breath to leave, to thank him for his time. She leaned back, her bag slipping down her legs, and he shifted his weight under the purple lights. A shimmer caught her eye, a smattering of grey in his black hair. Her bag fell to the floor as Kira leaned forward. 

“Hey,” she grinned for the first time in months, “we match!” 

She wove her fingers through her hair, holding it out. The thickest chunk of salt-and-pepper came from her temple, sprinkling out across the rest of her skull like dust. Finstock’s face went through a series of wild expressions, surprise, amusement, a tight scrunch of his eyebrows, and a moment of morose sadness. He settled on a soft huff, his severe face softening with a crooked smile. 

“Looks better on you.” He glanced at the clock. “My break is comin’ up. How about I fix you some breakfast?” He cleared his throat, a vicious frown back on his face. “On the house.” 

Kira’s nightmares were filled with her own eyes staring back at her. Sometimes her ward wasn’t enough to kill it. Sometimes, Peter burned himself inside out. Her neighbors pounding on the walls woke her up, her throat sore from screaming. She’d shake on her bed in a cold sweat until sunrise. 

On the rare night when she could get a full night’s sleep, she dreamed of thin, pearly white strands. They were so delicate, but deep down she knew their strength, their _inevitability._ It was as much of a fright as it was a comfort, to see them spread out from her chest, reaching out into the dark, towards country music and coffee breath. 

“Sure.” He had dark circles under his eyes. Kira wondered if he’d slept a full night since. She smiled. “Surprise me.” 

He rolled his eyes, but she caught a glimpse of his smile when he pushed through the kitchen doors. Coffee lingered on her tongue. Music idled. Kira took a breath, her chest loose for the first time in months. 

A _ping_ chimed from her phone, its screen lighting up. 

She had one new text.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for HakeberHooligan and I really hope you like it! I went into this like “I’m going to do a Coffee Shop/Soulmates/Magic AU, but like, satire” and… it turned into this. A cosmic horror love story?? Ooops. Oh man. I mean… I had fun and I kinda just ran with it, threw in some magic Stiles but again… probably not the magic that anyone EXPECTS when it comes to the tags. Again, sorry if this is totally not what you were looking for. 
> 
> I hope it was entertaining, this was a great exchange, hope to do it again next year!


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